


30 Days of Femslash Collection

by lit_chick08



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: 30 Days of Femslash, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ancient Rome, Babies, Chance Meetings, Crime, Eighties, F/F, Fairy Tale Retellings, Happily Ever After, Mental Illness, Mermaids, Neighbors, Olympics, Pirates, Road Trip, Sixteenth Century, Small Towns, Soulmates, Suddenly Related, Suicide Attempt, Superpowers, The Fifties, The Future, Time Travel, Witches, World War II, musician - Freeform, space, work relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 20,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1551173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The collection of ficlets written for the 30 Days of Femslash list on Tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer Camp

She hadn’t wanted to come to camp. It was Arya’s idea; she begged for months to be able to go, to spend their summer canoeing, hiking, swimming, and participating in a color war. Her parents would have said yes no matter what, but with their father’s unexpected heart attack mid-March, their mother decided maybe it was best if they both went. Catelyn Stark signed all of them up for some summer activity to “distract” them: Robb was taking summer courses, she and Arya were here, Bran went to some special camp for disabled kids, and Rickon, who was too little to go to camp, got signed up for tee-ball. 

Camp was less of a distraction and more of a reminder to Sansa that she wouldn’t be there if her dad hadn’t died. Even around the cabin, that was her identifying characteristic. She was Sansa, the girl with the dead dad. The camp itself wasn’t as bad as she imagined it to be; there were art classes and dance classes, and a few of the girls reminded her of her friends at home. But there was no privacy, no place to gather your thoughts, which is why Sansa, who had never met a rule she didn’t follow to the letter, snuck out of her cabin every night at midnight to sit down on the dock and think.

The water wasn’t as cold as it had been the week before and so Sansa dangled her feet into the lake, watching the little ripples on the surface in the moonlight. When she closed her eyes, all she heard was the sound of wind moving through the trees, and it made her sigh in gratitude.

“What are you doing?”

Sansa screamed, whirling around and nearly falling into the lake when she saw it was only Brienne, her counselor. The other girls in the cabin didn’t like her, calling her any variety of terrible names. They mocked her size, her ugliness, her tendency to wear men’s cargo shorts instead of the cute khaki shorts the other female counselors wore. “Brienne the Beauty,” one of the girls christened the counselor in a bit of mean spirited sarcasm, and Sansa knew Brienne heard some of the names. She always turned a ferocious shade of pink when the more aggressive girls started to mess with her, and Sansa thought it looked as if she was always folding in on herself, trying to shrink herself into invisibility. It was impossible, of course, but Sansa understood the impulse. Even if she wasn’t the girl with the dead dad, she had been the tallest person in her class until the boys started hitting puberty in middle school, and she lost track of how often she’d been compared to a giraffe or flamingo.

“I needed to be somewhere quiet.”

“Are you meeting someone?”

“Meeting someone?” When Brienne nodded towards the boys’ camp across the lake, Sansa quickly shook her head. “No, I just – Doesn’t it feel claustrophobic in there sometimes?”

Brienne’s face twisted into an expression of pain for a moment before nodding. “It’s just – You’re not supposed to be out after curfew.”

“I know but…you’re here now, so isn’t it okay?”

Brienne paused before carefully lowering herself down onto the dock. She tugged off her shoes and put her feet in the water, and they sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Sansa kept stealing looks at the older girl out of the corner of her eye before finally asking, “Do you like being a counselor here?”

“No.”

“Then why work here?”

“My dad owns it.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know why she said it, why it chose to come bubbling out now, but Sansa said, “My dad’s dead.”

Brienne looked at her, and for the first time Sansa noticed how blue her eyes were. “My mom’s dead.”

“Does it ever hurt less?”

“No,” Brienne said softly, and Sansa felt such an overwhelming wave of gratitude towards her in that moment. Everyone else gave her empty platitudes about how it would get better, how soon she’d be able to just remember the good times, but she knew there was nothing that could erase the sight of her father falling to his knees in the backyard, one hand clutching at his arm. Nothing would ever make the hurt go away, and none of her siblings seemed to understand that. They weren’t there; they didn’t _see_.

“I come out here every night,” Sansa told her when they put their shoes back on to head back to the cabin. “Maybe you could come too.”

The guardedness in Brienne’s eyes made Sansa want to hug her. “We’re really not supposed to be out here.”

“What’s your dad going to do, fire you?”

One side of her mouth quirked upward. “I guess not.”

They were almost back to the cabin when Sansa said, “You know, you aren’t _that_ much taller than me.”

Brienne smiled this time. “I’m a half-foot taller than you.”

“Still less than the rest of the girls.” She climbed two of the steps up to the cabin so she was eye level with Brienne. It was wild impulse that made her lean forward and brush a kiss against Brienne’s cheek, which instantly turned pink. “Thank you.”

Brienne nodded before ducking her head, hiding her face, and Sansa wondered what it would be like to kiss her mouth.

Maybe she’d find out tomorrow night.


	2. Apocalypse

Mya finds her on the fifth week after the world ends, scavenging in a garbage can, half-rotted food gathered in her hoodie. Both of them freeze, and Mya tightens her hand around the hilt of the knife she carries. It is only then she sees a tiny, red head pop out from behind the girl’s back, his grey eyes shining in the muted light, and he must see the knife because he snaps, “Don’t you hurt my sister!”

“Rickon!” the girl hisses, one arm hooking behind her to keep the little boy in place, the other still holding the bottom of her hoodie so she doesn’t drop the food. She doesn’t carry a weapon, and Mya thinks she’s an idiot for it. There are men a few blocks over who would do things to this girl and her brother Mya doesn’t even want to conceive of; she’d left one holding his intestines only an hour ago.

Even though she should know better, Mya hears herself offering them a place to stay. The girl eyes her warily, and while Mya understands it, it also irritates her some. Eventually this girl will run out of garbage cans to dig scraps out of and the little boy will want fed. There are things she will need to be prepared to do to make that happen if she doesn’t carry a weapon.

“I have food.”

The boy perks up instantly, loudly complaining of his belly aching, and the girl nods, dropping the garbage back on the ground for the next starving person, scooping the boy up into her thin arms. 

Mya leads her back to the house, making certain no one is looking before she climbs the stairs to what was once someone’s second-floor apartment. There hasn’t been electricity since the first week after the end, and she never lights candles, never gives any indication there is something to be had here in her refuge. 

She gestures for the girl to sit on the couch with the boy before going into the kitchen, digging out one of the cans of cold beef stew there. When it became obvious help wasn’t coming, she’d raided a church food bank a few blocks over. Most of the looters went for the grocery stores or the drug stores, but Mya understood she needed food that would withstand the test of time. 

When she presents the cold can to the girl and her brother, the little boy digs in immediately, complaining only mildly at how cold it is. Mya watches the girl watch, waiting for the girl to finally take her share but she doesn’t. Instead she lets the boy eat all of it, prompting him to say thank you as if they are in the park and death isn’t hovering around every corner.

“There are two bedrooms. If you guys want to use the other one – “

The girl nods, letting Mya lead them there. The girl puts the boy to bed, tucking him in tightly after gently removing his sneakers and it is only then Mya notices they are expensive, name brand shoes, the sort of shoes a little boy would never receive unless his family had money. When the girl steps into a beam of moonlight sneaking in between the curtains, Mya sees she is beautiful. Before everything, she was probably one of the girls who came into the coffee shop Mya worked at, the ones who ordered complicated, flavored coffees and never left a tip in the jar. She’d thought all the girls like that escaped with their rich fathers to the safe zones where food was plentiful and girls didn’t have to decide if they’d rather starve or fuck for food.

She gives the girl a can of cold chicken noodle soup, and the girl finally cracks a smile, politely requesting a spoon. Mya returns the smile, gesturing for her to sit in one of the chairs at the small kitchen table before joining her.

“Thank you for this.”

“Girls need to stick together right now, right?” When the girl says nothing, she adds, “I’m Mya.”

“Sansa.”

Yes, definitely one of the coffee girls. They all had ridiculous names like no one else and always sneered in derision when you misspelled it on their cup. “You couldn’t get to one of the camps?”

The girl - _Sansa_ \- flinches before shaking her head. There is a story there, but Mya doesn’t ask for it. This is not her business. None of it is. If she hadn’t seen the little boy, she probably wouldn’t be sitting at this table with Sansa at all. 

And then Sansa says, “I know you.”

“Yeah?”

“You worked at the coffee shop over on Vale, the one with the mule on the sign.”

Mya tries not to smirk at how right her assessment was. “Yep, that was me. I don’t remember you coming in.”

“I didn’t. My dance studio was across the street. I’d see you in the window sometimes. Your hair was different though. You used to have blue streaks in it.”

“Not a lot of dye available during the apocalypse.” Mya quirks an eyebrow. “Sounds like you saw me a lot.”

“I looked for you.”

“Why?”

It is hard to tell in near blackness, but Mya swears she sees Sansa’s cheeks flame red. “I just did.”


	3. Long Distance

“Where’s your roommate?” Margaery asks, her face bopping in and out of frame as she carried her laptop into her bedroom.

Sansa shrugs. “I think she’s sleeping at Jon’s tonight.”

“Really?” The laptop stops moving, and Sansa can tell from the background Margaery is sitting on her bed. “That means we can have some fun.”

“What do you mean?”

Margaery’s smile becomes downright ravenous. “What, you’ve never heard of Skype sex?”

“Marg…”

“Come on,” she wheedles. When Sansa doesn’t say anything, she tugs her shirt off, leaving her sitting in front of the screen in a lacy pink bra. “What do you think? It’s new.”

Sansa knows she’s blushing even as she nods. “Beautiful.”

“What bra are you wearing?”

“I’m – I’m not…wearing one.”

Even through the screen, Sansa can tell Margaery’s eyes light up. “I’m going to need to confirm that.”

“Hold on,” Sansa requests after a beat, hurrying across her dorm room to lock the door. They never lock the door and, as a result, Ygritte never carried her keys. If she returned from Jon’s for some reason, it would at least buy Sansa enough time to make herself decent.

When she sits back in front of her laptop, she sees Margaery reclining against her headboard, smiling broadly when she sees Sansa. Taking a deep breath, Sansa strips off the camisole she wears to bed, revealing her breasts. She knows she’s blushing all the way down her chest; she and Margaery have been dating for months now but they’ve never really gone very far. Margaery is the first girl Sansa’s ever dated, and Margaery agreed to go slow. It’s far easier to get naked alone in her dorm room with Margaery two hours away than it is when they’re together.

“Oh, San,” Margaery sighs, her voice warm. “You are so beautiful.”

It takes everything in Sansa not to fold her arms over her chest to hide. “Now you?”

Margaery nods, reaching behind her back for the clip of her bra. She makes a bit of a show of it, a giggly burlesque, and Sansa laughs even as her stomach clenches in desire as she finally sees Margaery topless for the first time.

Skype sex might be the best thing Margaery has ever suggested.


	4. Crime

Val is the decoy. She always is. When it comes to distracting pimply-faced store clerks, Val is the one they can’t take their eyes off of, the one they laugh with and stutter through invitations to movies. There are many things Ygritte is better at than her best friend, but being a loser’s choice of eye candy is not it.

“You’re gorgeous,” Val always says when Ygritte complains about her crooked teeth or frizzy hair, alternately kissing her head or shoving at her shoulder depending on what mood she’s in that day. Jon always says there’s no telling what Val will do, but Ygritte knows it isn’t true. She’s known Val since they were kids, and she is predictable in her unpredictability.

Jon likes Ygritte best, which is something new for both she and Val. They’ve shared guys before but it always has stared because Val dated the guy and suggested they bring Ygritte into the relationship. Jon is different. He loved Ygritte first, would look at her even when Val entered the room, and it still makes Ygritte’s mouth flip.

“I love the way he looks at you,” Val told her one morning after Jon left for work and the two of them remained snuggled together in bed. “You picked a good one, sweetheart.”

“Do _you_ like him for you though?”

“I like how good he makes you feel.” Val smiled wickedly. “And I like how good he is with his mouth.”

“Better than me?”

Her smile became a grin, lovingly predatory, as she rolled onto her back and pulled Ygritte with her. “Why don’t we see?”

This morning though, there is no time for sexy banter. Val needs to distract the clerk so Ygritte can slip into the backroom, break into the safe, and remove the week’s take before the clerk noticed. Sigorn used to work at this store, and he was the one who told them how the Lannisters, too cheap to pay someone to pick up the take every night, always waited until Thursday morning, making Wednesday night the perfect time to rob them blind.

While Val works her magic, luring adolescent males to their eventual firing by Old Man Lannister, Ygritte carefully opens the door marked “Employees Only” back by the soda. The safe is just where Sigorn told them it would be and Ygritte glances at the slip of paper with the combination on it before spinning the dial. Inside are 6 zip-up bags, each marked with a day’s name, and rather than stuff the bills into her pockets, Ygritte opens her messenger bag and shoves the bags inside. Making sure the hood of her sweatshirt still covers her bright hair and hides her face, Ygritte slips back out into the store, opening the cooler to remove a bottle of soda.

The clerk is blushing bright red from Val’s attentions when Ygritte puts her soda on the counter, digging a few crumpled singles out of her pocket to pay for it. He doesn’t even glance at her as he rings up the transaction, and Ygritte takes her change and the bottle, leaving the store. She walks up the block, waiting against one of the buildings for Val to join her, which she does a few minutes later.

“You get it all?”

Ygritte nods. “We’re good.”

Val presses her mouth against Ygritte’s, and Ygritte can feel her smiling around the kiss. She melts into her friend as she always does, sinking her fingers into Val’s golden curls, slipping her tongue into Val’s mouth. It amazes her how after all these years she still feels the same rush from each of Val’s kisses.

Val’s cool hands slip beneath her sweatshirt, palming Ygritte’s small breast, her thumb rolling over the hardened point of her nipple. Ygritte thinks she’d fuck Val right here if she asked, desire mixing so strongly with the adrenaline of the heist, but Val breaks the kiss, playing tweaking Ygritte’s nipple before pulling away.

“Let’s get the money to Tormund and then get back to the apartment.” Val rests her forehead against Ygritte’s for a moment, her fingers digging into Ygritte’s narrow hips. “I need to fuck you.”

“Jon comes home at – “

“No, I want you all to myself.” She kisses her fiercely, nipping at Ygritte’s lower lip. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll fuck you better than Jon Snow ever could.”


	5. Magic

The spell requires a burst of emotional energy, the purer the better. Sansa thought that meant anger; when Cersei taught her how to conjure, all the spells were fueled by anger, jealousy, hatred. It was why Sansa was so terrible at casting; she could never quite summon up the energy she needed. But Margaery looks at her in confusion when Sansa explains why she can’t perform the spell with her before asking, “You’ve never cast the regular way?”

Sansa shakes her head. “I thought that _was_ the regular way.”

The Tyrells have a special garden they cast in, one surrounded by hedges taller than Sansa. Southron magic is different from Northern magic, and she still hasn’t gotten over how casual the Tyrells are about it. Her father always taught her that magic was sacred and to be used sparingly. Margaery didn’t hold to that philosophy. She liked her power, and it makes Sansa want power for the first time in her life.

When Margaery begins to undress, the moonlight making her skin glow like alabaster, Sansa freezes. She’s heard that the Tyrells cast skyclad, but seeing it is something entirely different. Sansa debates returning to the castle, hiding away in her room and pretending she never asked Margaery for help in returning Winterfell to her.

Margaery looks at her, cocking her head to one side. Her brown hair tumbles over one shoulder, the ends brushing against her dark nipples, which are stiff from the cool evening air. Sansa takes in the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the triangle of brown curls between her legs, and she feels a blush creeping up her neck to her cheeks. She knows she should look away, but desire overpowers her manners.

“You trust me, don’t you, Sansa?”

Sansa nods, reaching behind her back to find the laces of her gown. Margaery crosses the grass, coming to stand behind her and gently unlacing her gown. Sansa exhales shakily as Margaery’s fingers brush the sensitive skin of her back, her nipples stiffening and the secret place between her legs growing damp. Margaery’s breath mists against Sansa’s neck as she urges Sansa’s gown down her arms, her hands slipping around Sansa’s body to cup her breasts, and Sansa starts to feel the telltale crackle of magic across her skin.

“The strongest magic,” Margaery whispers, hooking her thumbs into Sansa’s smallclothes and dragging them down her thighs, “doesn’t come from anger, Sansa. It comes from pleasure. Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” Sansa manages as Margaery’s fingers slip between her legs, stroking her just right.


	6. Supernatural Creatures

There is nothing left in the ocean to surprise Asha Greyjoy. She is the Kraken’s daughter, salt water in her veins, and someday she will rule the seas with the same fierceness as her father. And that is why, when the creature pops its head up from the waves, silver hair clinging to its face, violet eyes wide as it takes in the sight of Asha, Asha wonders if she knows _anything_ about the sea at all.

The creature’s skin reminds Asha of the pearls her father used to bring her mother, and she suspects if she touched the creature’s cheek, she’d find it as smooth and cool in her palm as the pearls were. Her breasts are bare, and the soft pink of her nipples brings to mind the inside of sea shells. But it is the shimmering blue scales of her tail that make Asha lean forward, wanting to see more. 

Fat Wyman Manderly tells of mermaids in his waters, but everyone knows you can’t trust Northmen; they don’t know the seas the way those from the Iron Isles do, and her father always says there’s no such thing. 

But…this creature – this _girl_ is bobbing in the waves in front of her, cocking her head, curiosity and wariness warring on her beautiful face. When she was a girl, one of her uncles brought her a doll from the Free Cities back before they realized she had no more use for dolls as she did a third leg, but the creature’s face reminds her of the doll’s. It is almost _too_ perfect, _too_ beautiful, and though Asha is not the sort of girl who cares about being beautiful, there is still something envious in her chest.

“What do you call yourself?” she asks the creature, uncertain if it even speaks. From the waist up, she looks like a normal person and not so much like a fish, but mayhaps she has gills somewhere Asha cannot see.

Asha does not know if the creature understands her or is trying to tell her something in whatever language mermaids use but she breathes, “Daenerys,” in a voice that makes Asha want to fling herself into the water and follow her to the deepest depths so long as she hears it again. She sways on the rocks, and the mermaid’s face falls, her hand fluttering to cover her lips.

“What’s wrong?”

The creature swims closer, her lips parting, and Asha leans closer, hoping to hear her voice again. She thinks the sound of her own name on the creature’s lips might be the sweetest sound in the whole world.

The mermaid pushes herself up against the rocks, lifting her body from the water, and Asha inhales sharply in surprise when their lips meet. Her mouth is cool and tastes of salt, and Asha parts her lips, pushing her tongue in the creature’s mouth. The mermaid makes a soft noise, not as wondrous as her voice but enough to make Asha’s blood sing, and she reaches to clasp the mermaid’s face, to keep her there. 

And then the creature is gone, pulling away with a jolt and disappearing beneath the waves. Asha shouts in frustration, in sadness, in loss, screaming the word, “Daenerys!” Its meaning does not even matter if it brings the creature back.

But she does not return, and Asha finds herself lying in bed that night, repeating the three syllables, a prayer and a curse.


	7. Soulmates

It is always hot in Dorne. Hot does not bother Ashara. But King’s Landing is humid, and it makes doing anything an uncomfortable venture. It is also why Elia claims a terrible headache to escape a sewing circle with Queen Rhaella and her ladies to hide away in her rooms, taking Ashara with her to assist in anything she needs. And what Elia requires is for Ashara to help her open all the windows, strip down to her skin, and lie still on the cool sheets.

“I would do anything to swim in the Water Gardens right now,” Elia murmurs, almost as if speaking in full voice will require too much effort, will only make her sweatier. 

“And eat blood oranges,” Ashara chimes in, salivating with the idea of the tart juice in her mouth. 

“We should visit Sunspear for your nameday.”

“We cannot. Rhaegar wishes to try for another child.” A hint of a mocking smile tugs at Elia’s lips. “We certainly couldn’t allow his only heir to be Rhaenys.”

“Of course not because what good are girls?”

“I’ve always found girls quite lovely,” Elia whispers, her brown leg sliding over Ashara’s pale one, insinuating it between her thighs. Ashara lifts her chin, meeting Elia’s kiss halfway as her princess settles atop her, fitting against her in that perfect way they discovered all those years ago in her chambers at Sunspear.

“Do you love me?” Elia pants against her mouth, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders to brush against Ashara’s skin. 

There is something desperate beneath the question, and it makes Ashara answer truly rather than tease. “You know I love no one more.”

Elia’s body becomes more pliant against hers, as if someone has released the tension in her body, and she kisses the sensitive place beneath Ashara’s ear. The princess of Dorne’s breath is hot against her ear as she declares, “I believe the gods made us for each other, Ashara. Do you believe that?”

She does, though if it is because she believes in the gods or because she believes in Elia, Ashara does not know. All she knows is everything is better when Elia is in her arms.


	8. Pirates

They put her in the hold as if she is just another piece of plunder, and Shireen supposes that, to them, that’s all she is. Some of them may know she is Princess Shireen Baratheon, the heir to the rightful king of Westeros, the next queen and the one they will kneel before someday. That is, if pirates kneel. When Davos told her stories of pirates – always making perfectly certain she knew the difference between a smuggler and a pirate, stressing that he was an honest criminal rather than a brigand – he left out how pirates felt about the monarchy. Not good, she suspects, if the way these men treat her is any indication. One of them even makes a remark about the greyscale on her face, and she sees it in his eyes that he wants a reaction to his words. Shireen does not give it. She’s heard whispered comments about her “unfortunate face” since she was stricken with it, and she is her father’s daughter; what they say about her will not matter half so much as what she does.

And that is why rather than cowering or crying or praying to the Lord of Light, she shouts in her father’s voice, “I demand to see the captain!”

“Do you now?” the fat one says jovially as he brings her what passes for food here, and Shireen grabs the plate and snaps back, “I do!”

It’s hard to mark days in the hold, but Shireen thinks it is another two before her request is actually answered. She is sitting on the farthest end of the room, the only one that doesn’t reek vaguely of urine, reciting the names of the Targaryen kings in order to pass the time. When she hears the clink of the key in the lock, Shireen gets to her feet, smoothing out the skirts of her dress and drawing back her shoulders in hopes of looking formidable. She isn’t so innocent that she does not know what pirates do to ladies; the Ironborn do horrendous things to ladies, and Shireen does not want that to happen to her. 

Which is why when Shireen sees the person standing in the doorway in a woman wearing men’s clothing, a thin blade at her hip, the first thing she feels is relief rather than surprise.

“You’re the captain?”

The woman inclines her head in a half-nod. “Aye. And you’re the princess.”

There is something mocking in her voice, and it makes Shireen stiffen her spine even more. “I am Princess Shireen Baratheon, and you will address me as such.”

“I know who you are or else I wouldn’t have told my men to take you.” The woman’s grey eyes take Shireen in, staring at her with such intensity Shireen feels naked beneath it. “I thought you’d cry by now, but the men say you haven’t.”

“Why would I cry? I know my father will pay whatever ransom you ask. You have no idea what you have done, angering my father. He will come for you with all the strength of the Seven Kingdoms – “

The woman waves her hand dismissively. “Spare me your threats and posturing. I’ve no intention of doing anything to you, and I know he’ll pay the ransom. I came here to say that, if you’re willing to behave, you can sleep in my cabin rather than the hold.”

Shireen frowns. “Why would you let me into your cabin?”

“Because I’m a kind soul.” She smirks. “And because I’ve spent time in a hold and I know how gods damned uncomfortable it is.”

Shireen considers saying she’d rather stay in the hold, but her back is awfully sore and she longs for a pillow. She nods, gathering her skirts to follow the captain to her cabin. As they pass some of the men, Shireen forces herself to keep her chin high, and she follows the captain into the cabin.

It is small but serviceable, neatly kept without many possessions. Shireen sits on the edge of the bed, folding her hands in her lap, and the captain unfastens her sword belt, setting it on a table nailed to the wall.

“If you try for my sword, I’ll kill you.”

Shireen suppresses a shiver at the threat. “I won’t.”

“Good.”

Shireen flinches as she sees the captain begin to strip down to her underclothes, discarding the breeches and tunic to reveal smallclothes and linen around her breasts. The captain catches her gaze and moves over to a cabinet, removing a tunic and tossing it towards her.

“That gown has seen better days. Put that on and I’ll see about getting you a new one.”

Her fingers feel numb as Shireen struggles to unlace her gown, depositing the soiled gown and shift on the floor of the cabin before quickly pulling the tunic over her head. It is a bit too small for her, her breasts straining against the front of it, and she folds her arms over her chest self-consciously.

The captain has no such modesty. Shireen cannot look away as she removes the linen from around her breasts. They are much smaller than Shireen’s, the nipples darker, and a shiver Shireen cannot name creeps up her spine at the thought of what they would feel like between her fingers.

“You did not tell me your name,” Shireen manages as the captain climbs into the bed naked as the day she was born, pulling the sheet over her without a care.

“The men call me Salty.”

“But what is your true name?”

The captain is quiet for so long, Shireen thinks she has slipped off to sleep. She has just lain back on the pillow when the captain murmurs, “My family called me Arya.”


	9. School

Despite the fact that Tarth comes before Tyrell alphabetically, Brienne sits behind her in calculus, a seating change Pycelle made on the first day of class when it became clear Margaery would have no chance of seeing the board from behind Brienne’s broad shoulders. Margaery still remembered how embarrassed Brienne looked as she gathered her bag, heaving herself out of the desk and trying to move away as much as she could so Margaery could pass. Everyone in the class snickered and whispered without Pycelle saying a word, and it made Margaery angry to even think about now. What chance did Brienne have of ever fitting in when even the teachers treated her like some sort of freak?

Brienne is already sitting in her desk when Margaery arrives just before the bell. Since it’s Friday, she wears her jersey and a pair of jeans, and with her short haircut, there is something decidedly masculine about her. Margaery’s preference in women has always run more towards the femme end of the spectrum, but there is something about Brienne that starts a spark in her belly. And judging by the looks Brienne steals out of the corner of her eye at Margaery’s legs on display in her tiny cheerleading skirt, Margaery suspects she isn’t the only one with an attraction here.

“Hey, Brie,” she says as she slips into the desk, the same way she has said it every day since their encounter in the locker room. Margaery doesn’t actually know if Brienne minds her new nickname, but she hasn’t told Margaery to fuck off yet so that’s promising.

Of course, Margaery doesn’t think she’s ever heard Brienne swear, let alone tell someone to fuck off. As Pycelle drones on about variables, Margaery wonders what it would take to make Brienne truly swear, to shout “fuck!” with the sort of abandon Margaery always did. Would she do it in anger? In sadness?

Personally Margaery hopes she’ll do it when Margaery finally gets her into bed, but that could be a long way off. Brienne is sweetly, stubbornly innocent, and if she knows Margaery is interested in her, she’s doing a very good job at playing dumb.

When Pycelle tells them to find a partner, Margaery whirls around, dropping her notebook on Brienne’s desk before Lyra Mormont can ask to be her partner. Brienne, as always, wears her expression of wariness and hopefulness, and she’s so goddamned cute, Margaery wants to kiss her right there.

“So you never told me what special thing you want me to do for you.”

Brienne shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “We’re supposed to be solving the equation.”

Margaery rolls her eyes. “It’s part of the requirements of claiming you as my player. Do you like cookies? Need help with homework? Want a back massage?”

“You don’t need to do anything. It’s a stupid, sexist tradition anyway, making the cheerleaders serve the players.”

“I agree, which is why I claimed you.” Margaery smiles as she stealthily brushing the tips of her fingers against Brienne’s hand. “I _want_ to do something nice for you.”

“Why? You don’t even know me.”

“And that seems like a real shame because I think we could be pretty great friends. Which is all the more reason you should come to my house on Saturday. My brother Loras is having a party. It’ll be mostly college kids, but he said I could invite a friend.”

“I don’t really go to parties.”

“Good because high school parties are lame. The ones Loras throws are not.” She flips Brienne’s hand, rough from work and football, and writes her address as neatly as possible in ballpoint pen on her palm. “Promise me you’ll come.”

“Margaery – “

“C’mon, Brie. You don’t want to break my heart, do you?”

It’s manipulative and maybe a little underhanded, but Brienne looks at her palm before returning her gaze to Margaery. “Okay.”

“Good!” Flipping to a blank page in her notebook, she casually adds, “Oh, and you might as well just sleep over in my room because the party runs late.”

Margaery isn’t always the most observant girl but even she can’t miss the flash of desire in Brienne’s eyes before she quickly averts her face.


	10. Fairytale Retelling

She has been in the tower so long she does not remember what it was like to be outside. Sometimes when the winds blow strongly and she catches the scent of summer, Lyanna remembers what came before: the godswood, the castle, her brothers, Old Nan. But that was before the Dragon came.

It has been so long since she’s seen the Dragon. He flew away, sealed her up in the tower and left her to fight a war. She hopes someone slays him but then she will die sealed up in this place; she hopes he comes back because even if she hates him, at least it’s less lonely without him.

Time passes without meaning, and Lyanna grows. She grows older, she grows taller, she grows bored and angry and hungry for experience. But the clearest measure of growth is her hair. Thick and dark and heavy as an anchor, it falls over her shoulders, down her back, around her hip, against her leg, and coils on the floor. It takes an entire day to wash and braid it, but Lyanna has the time. The Dragon used to bring her flowers and ribbons to dress the braid, but the blue roses are husks now and her ribbons, frayed.

On the darkest days, when there is no hope and her heart aches, Lyanna wonders if it would be possible to loop the braid around her neck, toss it over a beam, and end it all, a princess marionette tangled in her strings inside her prison.

The sound of horse hooves running sends her to the window, already shouting for attention. It is not the Dragon; the armor the knight wears is silver rather than black, no rubies to be seen. She waves her arms and screams so loud, even the gods should hear her, and the knight pulls on the reins, coming to a stop beneath the tower.

“Hello!” Lyanna shouts, laughing and crying with happiness. It has been so long since she’s seen another person, since she’s been _seen_.

The knight pulls off his helm, and Lyanna sees it is a not a man at all. It is a woman, tall as a man and lean as her brother Brandon. Her dark hair is held back in a loose plait, sweat on her forehead causing strands to stick to her skin, and though she is not a beautiful woman, Lyanna thinks she is the most wondrous sight she’s ever seen.

“Lady Lyanna, I come at your brother’s request! I am Dacey of House Mormont!”

Lyanna leans over the windowsill, her braid sliding forward, and Lyanna watches with shock as her hair unfurls, the braid ending just shy of the ground. “Come up, Lady Dacey!”

As Dacey Mormont scales her hair, Lyanna thinks this may be what love feels like.


	11. Sixteenth Century

They will kill her for this. If her husband finds out, if the _king_ finds out, they will not hesitate to drag her from the princess’s room and murder them both on the green just as they did the princess’s mother and her stepmother.

And still Shae does not stop kissing Princess Sansa.

She’s such a sensitive girl, the little princess, and so badly treated by the king and his men. Shae is her only servant, and all of court knows she once served as a whore to the king’s uncle. It is designed to shame Sansa, to remind her that she will never be queen despite coming before the king’s other daughters from other marriages, but Sansa does not act like it is. She has been the kindest mistress Shae has ever served, and she would kill for the princess. 

None of that explains why she is allowing the princess to cup her face and kiss her so sweetly, it makes Shae’s heart ache in a way it hasn’t since she was the princess’s age.

“You grace,” Shae pants between kisses, shivering as the princess’s long, graceful fingers cup her breast through her gown, “we mustn’t…”

“I am so tired of being told what I mustn’t do,” Sansa replies, the tip of her tongue sliding across Shae’s full lower lip. Her voice is husky and breathless as she asks, “Do you not want this too, Shae?”

Shae answers her question with a kiss and prays it will not hurt when the headsman drops his axe.


	12. Neighbors

Myrcella can’t breathe. She can’t think. She can’t do anything but look out her window and into the open window across the lawn.

The open window Sansa is currently undressing in front of, her eyes locked on Myrcella’s, a playful smile on her face.

They’ve only recently progressed from secretly kissing in their bedrooms to secretly kissing and groping in their bedrooms, and clothing has always stayed on out of necessity. Sansa shares her room with Arya who loudly proclaims that the room isn’t just Sansa’s whenever Sansa complains about Arya barging in and blaring her music. As for her house, Tommen still hasn’t mastered knocking before entering and Joffrey has a creepy crush on Sansa that means he’s constantly finding bullshit excuses to interrupt them when Sansa comes over to hang out. Thus…lots of frantic kissing but no actual nudity.

Which explains why Myrcella is reacting to the sight of Sansa in her bra and underwear like she’s never seen another girl in her life.

Her underwear matches. Myrcella doesn’t realize until this moment that she’s always thought it would because that’s the sort of girl Sansa is. Every aspect of every outfit is coordinated, and her underwear is no different. The set she’s wearing is pale pink lace, demure and seductive at the same time, and it makes Myrcella’s heart beat faster.

When Sansa reaches behind her back for the clasp of her bra, Myrcella grips her windowsill. Sansa pauses for a moment, the straps of her bra loose around her shoulders, her figure limned in light, and Myrcella wants to remember this moment for the rest of her life.

Sansa drops her bra, and Myrcella can’t help but moan. She inhales sharply as Sansa hooks her thumbs into her underwear, slowly working them over her hips, and this may just be the best night of Myrcella’s life – 

“Myrcella, look!” Tommen cries as he flings open her bedroom door, Ser Pounce in his arms, and Myrcella whirls around so fast, she nearly falls.

“Tommen, knock!” she snaps before immediately apologizing as Tommen’s face falls. By the time she has rustled him out of her room, Myrcella turns back to Sansa’s window to see Arya crossing in front of it in her robe.

Groaning Myrcella drops onto her bed and wonders why she and Sansa couldn’t have been only children.


	13. Superpowers

It happens for the first time when Dany is thirteen. Viserys is yelling at her again, berating her for some new slight, screeching about what a little idiot she is. The anger builds up inside of her, coiling like a spring in her belly, and when she screams, “Stop it!” at the top of her voice, she shocks them both by shooting flames from her mouth.

After the stun wears off, Viserys begins to plot. It is a great advantage, having someone like Dany at his side while he tries to win back their family’s throne. She isn’t even a person to him anymore; whatever sense of familial love that existed between them is gone now that Viserys has a weapon.

“You’re a dragon,” Viserys says with sick glee, standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders. His grip is fierce and bruising, and flames creep up Dany’s throat.

They sail across the Narrow Sea with Viserys’s purchased soldiers, men who do not think they can lose when there is fire in human form at the Beggar King’s side. The men keep their distance, and even in her aching loneliness, she is grateful for it. She does not want to storm Westeros and kill; she wants to go back to Braavos and find a house with a red door to call home.

She may be a princess and a dragon, but she is also still a girl. Viserys winning the throne means she will be forced to become his wife, to be his pet forever, and Dany looks over the side of the ship, wonders if she has the strength to fling herself into the sea.

And that is when she sees what she thinks is seaweed floating atop the water. It is only when the seaweed moves that Dany sees it is flowing green hair attached to a very beautiful girl swimming alongside the ship.

For a moment Dany thinks the girl must be a mermaid, but she does not have fins. No, she has long legs and wears a man’s tunic, and when she sees Dany, she grins. It is then Dany notices the girl has gills below her ears, and if Dany is a dragon, this girl is a fish.

In her excitement, Dany laughs, a small burst of flame hopping off her tongue, and the girl in the water claps in delight. Dany stretches over the side and says, “I’m Daenerys of House Targaryen.”

The fish girl inclines her head. “Wylla of House Manderly.” She swims backward, away from the ship, and calls, “Best tell your men to stay clear of White Harbor! I’d hate to have to sink your ship, Daenerys!”

Dany watches her disappear beneath the waves, heart aching with a desperate desire to scream for her to come back, to not leave her alone as the only freak on the surface, but instead she spits a tower of flames into the sky and hopes Wylla comes back to see her once more.


	14. Ancient World

Being the wife of the legatus allows Cersei privileges few other women get to have, and she revels in it. She also enjoys making other women squirm in the face of her power, which is why she insists Catelyn Stark accompany her to a gathering at the gladiator school. Catelyn is the sort of woman Cersei would never select for company under other circumstances, but Robert considers Catelyn’s dour husband his dearest friend and so it falls to Cersei to entertain her like she is some common woman.

And entertain her Cersei shall, just not in a way either of their husbands would approve.

“You can purchase the services of one of them for the night,” Cersei murmurs to the wide-eyed woman at her side, gesturing to the line of silent, oiled men standing on the other side of the room. 

“Why would I require a gladiator?”

Cersei makes certain her lips brush the shell of Catelyn’s ear as she growls, “For fucking, of course.”

Catelyn turns as red as her hair, and it irks Cersei that it makes her even more becoming. She is a pretty thing, Ned Stark’s innocent wife; Cersei can admit it easily enough because she knows she is still more beautiful. Confidence is not something Cersei lacks, and anyone who is asked who is the most beautiful woman in the city would answer with her name. 

“I have no want for a gladiator for that purpose,” Catelyn murmurs, and it is only then Cersei notices Catelyn is stealing glances at the slave girl moving through the crowd with a tray of wine. 

When Catelyn excuses herself to speak to some mousy looking woman, Cersei asks Petyr Baelish about the slave girl. The odious little man smirks beneath his mustache and says, “Oh, that’s Taena, a recent acquisition. She’s exquisite, don’t you think?”

Cersei ignores the suggestion in his voice. “How much?”

“I had not planned on – “

“ _How much_?” 

Baelish names his price and Cersei pays it, requesting a private room and strict instructions to deliver Taena to the room. She hurries to find Catelyn, telling her she has something she must show her, and Catelyn goes because she is the sort of woman who trusts blindly. 

Catelyn gasps when she sees Taena stretched across the bed, her full, dark-tipped breasts and the dark triangle between her thighs on full display, and Cersei feels herself responding to the sight. 

“I thought you’d like her,” Cersei purrs, sliding her arms around Catelyn’s waist, her hands feeling the heat of her skin through the thin gown, “since gladiators aren’t to your liking.”

“Cersei,” Catelyn chokes out, shaking her head even as she leans into Cersei’s touch.

As she unfastens Catelyn’s gown and Taena crawls across the bed to join them, Cersei thinks she may have been wrong. Catelyn Stark may just be her new favorite person.


	15. Small Town

Summer is the worst time in their small town. At least during the other nine months of the year, there were things to keep them occupied: school, extracurricular activities, babysitting. But summer means endless stretches of time to think about everything and actually do nothing.

Sansa is so tired of thinking. Her brain hurts from it.

The pastor sounds like the teacher from _Charlie Brown_ today, and while normally Sansa would feel terrible about zoning out in church, the sweltering humidity has guaranteed no one in the church is paying attention to anything other than their own sweaty discomfort. Rickon squirms beside her, trying to reach across Arya to get to Bran, and Sansa muffles a grunt as her father reaches across her, scoops Rickon up, and pulls him across Sansa.

She hears someone tittering, and Sansa subtly turns her head to see Margaery Tyrell in the front pew across the aisle, her brown eyes alight with amusement. Sansa hurries to look away. She can’t be thinking the thoughts Margaery inspires in her inside the church. 

There’s a picnic after the service, and Sansa hopes her parents won’t want to stay even though she knows they will. Her mother is on every possible committee the church has, including the one that plans these picnics. Sometimes her father will leave the events early, his obligation to support her mother’s faith fulfilled, so he can attend services at the temple in the city. Jon, Arya, and Bran always go with him, and Sansa is willing to devote herself to her Jewish heritage if it means she can escape the picnic with a reasonable excuse.

Except, of course, today is the day her father decides to stay, already deep in conversation with Mr. Baratheon about something that has the fat, bearded man roaring with laughter. Her mother is bustling behind the dessert table, and her brothers have joined some of the other guys in organizing a touch football game. In a moment of desperation Sansa actually looks for Arya, but even Arya is busy with friends.

“Sansa?” 

She’s suddenly grateful for the unbearable heat because it gives her a reason her face is as red as her hair. The last thing she wants is for the entire town to figure out what she is as they gorge themselves on fried chicken and corn on the cob.

Margaery is two years older than Sansa and as close to a celebrity as their tiny town has. She was everything the girls in their town were raised to want to be: student body president, cheerleading captain, girlfriend of the most handsome guy in school, the reigning county fair queen, and a debutant. If there is a pinnacle of Southern femininity, it is Margaery Tyrell, and Sansa once wrote off her desire to follow Margaery’s every move as a wish to _be_ her, she knows now it is so much more than that. It is so much _worse_ than that.

“I love your dress,” Margaery drawls, her voice as thick and sweet as honey. It is one of the many ways Sansa has never quite fit in with her peers; the years spent in her father’s native Massachusetts meant her words were always crisper, always lacked the lazy rhythm of the Mississippi drawl. 

“Thank you. I love yours.”

Margaery shrugs, ghosting her hands over her dress to smooth out imaginary wrinkles. “It’s so old. I told Mama I need a new one, but you know how she can be.” Dropping her voice into a whisper, she shares, “She’s so tight with her money, you’d think we were on the verge of being broke.”

The Tyrells are one of the richest families in town, and while Sansa’s own family is hardly poor, they couldn’t begin to compete with the Tyrells’ wealth. “I think it’s still real pretty.”

Margaery grins, lightly touching Sansa’s elbow and sending a shock of electricity up Sansa’s spine. “Oh, you are just too sweet. Why don’t we hang out more often?”

“I don’t know.”

“We should,” Margaery declares with the same confidence she uses when speaking at school assemblies. “Do you like to swim?”

“Swim?” she echoes dumbly.

“I cannot abide this heat much longer. I planned on heading home and getting in the pool. Do you want to come?”

“Oh, I don’t – I don’t have a suit with me.”

“I have dozens,” Margaery dismisses with a wave of her hand. “I’m sure one will fit you. And if they don’t, you can always wear a t-shirt.”

“I just – I don’t know – “

“Do you not want to?” Margaery’s expression falters a bit. “I’m sorry. I guess I misread – “

“No, I do!” Her heart beating faster than she thinks it ever has, Sansa repeats, “I do.”

Margaery’s smile is beatific, and Sansa knows she is well and truly fucked.


	16. Illness

She doesn’t mind the hospital. Maybe that’s proof more than anything else that she is as crazy as everyone thinks she is. This is her third stay in this particular psychiatric ward, the first in eighteen months, which is the longest stretch of time she’s spent out of the hospital since the boys died and Balon sent Theon away. Balon hasn’t been to visit her this time, but that doesn’t surprise her. He grew tired of her “antics” long ago. Only Asha comes, and sometimes Alannys wishes she wouldn’t.

She’d been so happy when Asha was born, grateful for her girl after two trying boys Balon claimed as his and his alone. Alannys imagined beautiful gowns and dressing Asha’s hair, but Asha was as much Balon’s as Rodrik and Maron. Theon had been hers, the only one of her children who preferred her to Balon, and though he wasn’t as dead as his brothers, he was gone just the same. Social Services took him after the boys’ deaths, stated he wasn’t safe in the home. Alannys hadn’t seen him since even though his foster family, the Starks, said they’d be willing to make the journey to Pyke so she could see him.

Balon doesn’t care to get him back, and Alannys thinks that is to punish her for the “weakness” of her broken mind. He’d done what it took to regain custody of Asha, used her to replace the children they’d lost to his own reckless choices, but her Theon was gone, held by strangers, and Alannys couldn’t bear the thought of her boy thinking she didn’t want him, that he might call Catelyn Stark “mother” some day.

Asha comes today because she comes every Saturday. She looks so damned much like Balon, and Alannys tries to remember the plump baby everyone swore looked just like her. Asha gives her a box of peanut brittle, her favorite treat, and Alannys manages a smile. She sees Asha’s eyes quickly flit to the healing marks on her wrists, the bandages finally gone but the stitches remaining, and Alannys feels a rush of shame, quickly tucking her arms back into her sleeves.

“The doctors said you’re making really good progress,” Asha tells her, flipping a Zippo between her nicotine stained fingers, “and your stay might be short this time.”

Alannys smiles because she knows that is what the situation requires. “I’m working very hard.”

“Good.” Asha’s face softens and, for a moment, Alannys sees the little girl who screamed when the social workers put Theon in the back of a car and drove away, who beat against the windows of the car _she_ was put into because she still felt as if she needed to protect her baby brother. “You look better, Mom. I really think you can beat it this time.”

If there is anything Alannys has learned from her string of hospitalizations and thousands of hours of therapy, it is that you cannot “beat” mental illness. You can medicate it into hibernation, you can address it in quiet offices, you can practice the skills that help you handle it in locked bathrooms or cowered beneath your comforter, but there is no “beating” it.

But Asha is the sort of woman who needs to fight, who needs to _win_ , and so Alannys lies, “I think so too, sweetheart.”

She’s exhausted after Asha leaves, and Alannys returns to her room, the box of peanut brittle in her hands. Her roommate is lying on her own rubber mattress facing away from the door the way she always does on visiting day. She has no one, the younger woman Alannys feels drawn to protect, and it breaks Alannys’s heart. 

“Tysha?” she ventures.

Tysha turns to face her, and Alannys is struck again by how pretty she is. It isn’t a traditional beauty; her nose is a bit too long, her face covered in freckles, and she has a scar on her right cheekbone, but all together the features present an interesting face. Alannys knows from group therapy that the scar came from one of the men who raped Tysha as a child, and the sight of it always makes Alannys so angry on Tysha’s behalf.

The unit tries to pair roommates together based upon diagnoses. Tysha is being treated for PTSD and anxiety, and while Alannys’s primary problem was always her suicide attempts, this latest psychiatrist decided her attempts were related to PTSD. Alannys doesn’t know if it is true, but she is grateful for Tysha’s company.

“Do you want some brittle?”

Tysha nods, throwing her legs over the side of the bed and reaching into the box. She crunches on the sweet in silence before asking, “Did you tell her what’s going to happen when you’re discharged?”

Alannys shakes her head. “I didn’t want to overwhelm her all at once.”

“It’ll be a lot,” Tysha allows, “finding out what you’re planning on doing.”

“You’re not angry?”

Tysha shakes her head. “You’ll tell her when you’re ready, when _she’s_ ready.”

Alannys isn’t certain Asha will ever be ready to hear that she is leaving Balon, that she is in love with her roommate and will be moving in with her to start a relationship, but Alannys knows she cannot return to her old life. And Tysha, sweet Tysha who wakes from nightmares as often as Alannys, never flinches from her scars or tells her she can beat away the darkness.

It is the reason she is doing better, having someone who finally understands her and loves her, but Alannys cannot tell Asha that. Not yet.

She is not ready to lose the last child she has.


	17. World War Two

She had bought the dress with Willas in mind for far too much money in a shop in the city. He always said how much he loved her in blue, and so when Sansa saw the bright blue dress with tiny white polka dots, she’d begged her mother for extra money to buy it.

She’d planned to wear it when Willas came home, when he finally proposed and they had the ceremony they planned via letters, but Willas wasn’t coming home. All that came was a telegram announcing that Willas caught shrapnel in his leg that lead to infection. He died somewhere in France, and his return to the United States required a black dress, not a blue one.

“You cannot mourn forever,” Margaery tells her one afternoon as they both leave the factory where they work. “Willas wouldn’t want that.”

Sansa tugs at the kerchief in her hair, shaking it loose. She always smells of the factory now, and she sees Margaery has a smudge of something beneath one eye. “I’m not mourning forever. I just don’t want to go to any parties.”

“It’s not a _party_ , San. It’s a place people go to listen to music and dance. And you love to dance! When was the last time you danced?”

“I don’t want to dance with strange men.”

“So dance with me.” Margaery flings an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her tight. “I miss you, Sansa. We all miss you. And if you won’t come with me, I won’t go either, and I _have_ to get out of the house.”

She’s never been particularly good at telling Margaery no and Margaery has never been good at hearing it, which is how Sansa ends up staring at that damned blue dress wearing nothing but her underthings, her hair and make-up already applied in an attempt to put off getting dressed.

“Sansa!” Margaery cries in dismay, flinging open Sansa’s bedroom door without bothering to knock. Only Arya is more blatant in her disregard for manners, and if Sansa tries, she can hear her little sister arguing with Bran and Rickon over the radio downstairs. “You aren’t even dressed yet?”

“I have nothing to wear.”

“I can see a half-dozen dressed from here.” Margaery reaches into her tiny closet, pulling out the blue one. “And this one looks brand new.”

Sansa struggles not to wince. “I don’t want to wear that one.”

“Why not? It’s gorgeous, and it’ll make you look amazing.” Margaery smiles teasingly. “Of course I’ll be incredibly angry you’ve upstaged me and be forced to pull your hair out at the root, but what else can I do?”

“Margaery, you don’t understand – “

“I understand,” Margaery interrupts, face softening. “He was my brother, Sansa. I miss him every day. I miss him so much I can’t stand it. Every time someone rings our doorbell, I live in fear they’ve come to tell us Garlan or Loras has met the same fate. I don’t know if life will ever be the same as it was before the war, and I don’t know how to even begin to try to make it that way. So you know what I’m going to do instead?”

“What?”

“I’m going to go dancing. I’m going to laugh and get a little drunk and remember that I am not nearly as old as I feel. And I want to do that with _you_.” She extends the dress. “So please get dressed because my father wants the car back before eleven.”

Sansa nods, accepting the dress and briefly holding it against her chest. She quickly steps into it, giving Margaery her back so she can draw up the zipper. Just as she remembered, the dress hugs her breasts a bit tighter than Ned Stark would approve of, the bell of the skirt emphasizing her small waist and fuller hips. When she’d tried it on in the store, the saleslady declared her to have a perfect hourglass figure, and Sansa couldn’t wait for Willas to discover the same.

And now it is Margaery who comes to stand behind her, playing with the clasp of the pearl necklace she wears. Sansa looks at their reflections in her mirror, and it startles her to realize for the first time that Margaery’s eyes are the same shade as Willas’s.

“I swear, Sansa, if you were not my best friend, I would hate you for how beautiful you are.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I say it because it’s true.” Margaery rests her chin on Sansa’s shoulder, wrapping her arms around her waist. “Do you remember when we were little and we said we were going to run off to New York City and become dancers?”

Sansa chuckles. “Of course. I thought my father was going to send me to a convent for even saying it.”

“When the war is over, I think I am going to go there. Not to be a dancer but…I am going to go.”

“Your father will never allow it.”

“I don’t need him to allow it. Grandmother is giving me access to my trust early so I can go.” Margaery squeezes her a bit tighter. “You should come with me, San.”

“Come with you? What would I do in New York City?”

“Whatever you want. That’s the beauty of it. Promise me you’ll consider it.”

Sansa thinks of her parents’ faces if she said she was going to move across the country with Margaery to live in the largest city in the country. And yet she suddenly wants nothing more than to get as far away from this town as possible, which is why she says, “I promise I will.” 

Margaery smiles, pressing a kiss to the dip of her shoulder, and Sansa’s stunned by the electric shock it sends up her spine. She suspects Margaery feels it too for she presses another kiss there, slower this time with more deliberation, and Sansa shivers, her eyes fluttering closed. It shames her, the inappropriate feelings swirling in the pit of her stomach, particularly when they are directed towards Willas’s sister.

And yet still she hopes Margaery will press a third kiss to her skin.

“We need to get going,” Margaery announces as she pulls away, and Sansa nods, shaking off her stupor and following her down the stairs.

They do not speak about what happened in her bedroom that night or the ones that follow. Sansa begins to think she imagined the entire thing, and she thinks that might be for the best. She has heard whispers about women who love other women, and she cannot be one of those sorts of women. And what would people say, her behaving so inappropriately with Willas’s own sister? No, it is certainly better to push it all down and pretend it never happened.

And that is precisely what she does until the day the war is declared over, Germany and Japan defeated, and the entire town explodes in celebration. The factory closes down for the day, the women whooping and crying because their husbands and sons are finally coming home. Sansa joins them, thinking of how sweet it will be to see Robb and Jon again, and Margaery comes rushing down the metal staircase, her grin wide enough to light the entire town.

Sansa inhales sharply through her nose when Margaery’s mouth crashes against hers, her best friend clutching her as tightly as she can. When the kiss breaks, Sansa whips her head around to see who has seen what they’ve done, but there is no one paying attention as their coworkers pour out of the doors to join the rest of the town in celebration.

Sansa knows she should join them. She knows the last thing she should do is to wrap her arms around Margaery and kiss her again.

But that is just what she does because the war is over and they are alive and maybe – just maybe – Margaery is the Tyrell she was meant to kiss all along.


	18. Work Relationship

The only reason Myrcella applied for the job was to prove to her family she didn’t need their money. Between her grandfather’s endless lectures to her and her brothers about how they took everything for granted and her father’s loud blustering about how he should cut them off to teach them a lesson, Myrcella decided she was going to show them she didn’t need them at all. Or, at least, she didn’t need them for spending money for the summer because even working full-time at minimum wage doesn’t add up to much.

With her complete lack of experience doing anything, she was lucky to get hired at the Water Gardens as a lifeguard. The only reason old Doran Martell hired her was because he recognized her name from the newspaper when she went to states for diving. If she was good enough to medal at states, he reasoned, she was certainly qualified to sit in one of the lifeguard chairs and make sure none of the rowdy kids drowned in the diving board section.

It was an easy job. She arrived an hour before the pools opened to help set up and then climbed the ladder to her post, which was stationed between the low-dive and high-dive. The only time she actually entered the water was during her breaks when she felt overheated, and other than a few brave guys who came over to hit on her, there were no annoyances. And the fact that it irritated her family that Doran Martell was signing her paychecks? Well, that was just a bonus.

The second week of June at the morning staff meeting, there was someone new. Oberyn didn’t introduce her to anyone but it seemed as if everyone already knew her. She was about Myrcella’s height with brown eyes and dark brown skin; her black hair was shorn close to her head, and a pair of silver studs glittered in her earlobes. Like the rest of them, she wore a bright red one-piece and a pair of black shorts, a silver whistle around her neck. When she smiled at Myrcella, Myrcella looked away, embarrassed to have been caught staring.

Her name was Sarella, and she manned the chair nearest Myrcella’s. A few discreet questions around the pool helped Myrcella to learn that Sarella was one of Oberyn’s many daughters. She bounced around the globe doing whatever struck her fancy since she dropped out of college a few years earlier but inevitably she ended up back in Westeros, back at the Water Gardens, until she picked up for another adventure.

It sounded like the exact sort of life Myrcella wanted and wasn’t brave enough to live for herself.

She was showering in the locker room after work, washing the chlorine from her hair in hopes of keeping it from turning a shade of green, when Sarella came to stand beneath the next showerhead. Myrcella extended her bottle of shampoo, and Sarella smirked before shaking her head. They washed in silence, Myrcella closing her eyes and tilting her face up towards the showerhead, when she heard the distinctive slap of a wet suit hitting the tile.

Myrcella tried not to gasp at the sight of Sarella, naked as the day she was born, showering beside her. She knew some of the lifeguards showered without their suits from time to time, but usually they’d duck into one of the few stalls, pulling the ratty curtains to protect their modesty. Sarella did none of that, humming a song from the radio as she lathered up her arms.

Myrcella didn’t know what the etiquette was here. She’d never been so close to another naked woman before, let alone one as confident as Sarella. Myrcella’s eyes kept drifting sideways to steal glances at her, noting her tiny breasts, a silver bar through her left nipple, her smooth skin, the thatch of black curls between her long legs. _She’s beautiful_ , Myrcella thought, a flare of heat spreading through her. It was different from the way she’d noticed other women’s beauty; before it was more clinical, a statement of fact. But there was something about Sarella that made Myrcella clench her fingers tightly to resist touching her.

Sarella turned off the water, striding over to her towel and wrapping it around her body. Myrcella watched as she disappeared behind a row of lockers before exhaling shakily.

That night as she lied awake in her bed, she worked her fingers between her legs, Sarella’s naked body dancing behind her eyelids.


	19. Babies

She thinks of Alysane and her two children, of the large, bearded men who came into her sister’s life, left their seed, and departed before seeing the children they helped to create. It was easy, downright transactional, and as Lyanna lies on the paper covering of Dr. Luwin’s exam table, her feet in the stirrups, she wishes she and Arya could just do this the old-fashioned way.

Lyanna knows she wants this more than Arya does. It isn’t that Arya is opposed to bringing a child into their lives; she is simply ambivalent about the entire thing. When Lyanna announced four months earlier she wanted to have a baby, Arya reacted the same way she had when Lyanna brought home the two cats she found behind her office or when she’d decided to paint their bedroom orange while Arya went to Bran’s college graduation. She’d looked up from her iPad, a contemplative look on her face, and then nodded before saying, “Okay.”

Her sisters didn’t like Arya. None of them said it to her face, but a lifetime of examining the silent ways her older sisters communicate has given Lyanna keen insight into them. Lyra dislikes her the most, and Lyanna isn’t sure she’ll ever forgive Lyanna for breaking up with Shireen to date Arya. Dacey is the most supportive, which means she doesn’t actively roll her eyes or avoid conversation with Arya, but even she looks stunned when Lyanna announces they are trying to have a baby.

“Are you sure, Lya?”

She is thirty-two, has been with Arya six years and lived with her for four of them, and she knows the window for having children is closing. They have good jobs, a nice townhouse, and the sort of upper-middle-class lifestyle alluding so many of the people they went to college with; with two empty guest rooms and only three pets to occupy their lives, Lyanna cannot see why a baby isn’t the next logical step.

“You want this, right?” she asked Arya that morning, as they got ready. Arya wore her only pantsuit with Lyanna’s blue pinstriped shirt beneath it, and Lyanna knew she must have to testify in court today. As a juvenile probation officer, Arya’s wardrobe lent itself more towards jeans and t-shirts, and she often had to borrow Lyanna’s dressier clothes for important occasions.

“Of course,” Arya answered around a mouthful of toothpaste, spitting the foam into the basin of the sink. She pressed a kiss to Lyanna’s mouth, the taste of mint biting Lyanna’s tongue, and smiled. “Are you sure you want to go alone? If you reschedule, I can – “

“I’m ovulating,” Lyanna reminded her, slightly irritated Arya didn’t remember. “If I reschedule, we have to wait another month.”

“Right, right.” Arya glanced at her watch and cursed. “I got to go. Call me after, okay?”

She didn’t even get to respond before Arya was bounding down the stairs, Nymeria at her heels. It wasn’t until Lyanna went downstairs she saw Arya had forgotten to feed the husky again, and she touched her empty stomach, wondering if this was the right choice.

There’s a framed poster of the female reproductive system on the wall. She remembers taking a quiz on all the parts in sex education in seventh grade, being equal parts embarrassed and fascinated by the secret inner workings of her body. With four older sisters, Lyanna knew what a period was before she knew who the Backstreet Boys were, but it all seemed so useless to her. She’d known in elementary school boys held no interest for her, and even with her failing grade in biology, she understood two women could not reproduce. The shedding of blood and tissue every month was wasted on her.

At least until she’d met Arya and suddenly wanted all the silly things she swore she never wanted.

They hadn’t wanted to ask any of their male friends to be donors to avoid complications. Not that they had many male friends to start and while Arya initially suggested her half-brother Jon so that the baby could look like both of them, it bothered Lyanna to think of carrying a part of Arya’s brother inside of her. 

“It’s not like you and Jon would have to fuck,” Arya argued when Lyanna voiced her discomfort, and though she’d wanted to point out that she’d hardly be the first Mormont girl to fuck Jon Snow, Lyanna simply held firm.

They selected the donor from a catalogue, pouring over physical details and reported accomplishments. After mild bickering they’d settled on a tall, green-eyed med student who played water polo.

“Fingers crossed we don’t end up with a douchebag!” Arya teased as Lyanna copied down the donor identification number to give to Luwin.

It’s cold in the exam room, especially when you’re naked beneath a thin cotton gown that ties in the back. As Luwin entered the room, smiling reassuringly and asking her some questions, Lyanna looked up at the ceiling tiles and wished she _had_ waited until next month. It didn’t feel right, doing this without Arya, potentially creating their child without her here. More than that, it bothered her that Arya didn’t insist on being here too.

“Are you ready, Lyanna?”

Lyanna takes a deep breath and nods. “Yep, let’s do it.”

Just as Luwin leans over the tray with the instruments required to inseminate her, the door bursts open. Lyanna sits up, quickly pulling her legs together so the intruder doesn’t get an eye full of her vagina, when she sees it is Arya, a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

“Did I miss it?” she asks panting.

Lyanna feels tears flood her eyes. “No, you didn’t miss it at all.”

Arya grins, coming to stand beside the table. She takes Lyanna’s hand, kissing her knuckles, before looking at Dr. Luwin at the foot of the table. “All right, Doc. Knock my girlfriend up.”

Lyanna’s eyes do not leave Arya’s face as Luwin slips the syringe inside her, the med student’s sperm deposited in her uterus and hopefully fertilizing the eggs waiting there. And as Arya leans down, pressing a long kiss to her lips, Lyanna understands while they may not be doing this the same way Alysane and her boyfriends did, no one will ever be able to deny this child was conceived in love.


	20. Space

There were few things Mya had absolute confidence in but her ability to navigate on unfamiliar worlds was at the top of the list. She’d developed the skill partly because she needed it to survive; her mother’s death at ten necessitated she learn how to handle herself. If her mother’s stories were to be believed, her father was the admiral of the Galactic Fleet, but you could never quite trust the stories. Mya got very good at telling stories. Cons, the security forces called it on the few occasions she’d been picked up by them, but Mya didn’t think of them as cons. You had to do what you had to do, and Mya never regretted that.

This planet was new. She’d bartered for passage to the Inner Rim, knowing it was the ideal place to lay low after the disaster that happened on the Outer Rim. The planets on the Inner Rim were bigger with densely packed cities, the exact sort of place Mya could get lost until the heat died down. Sure, there were more security forces, but there were also more criminals who committed far worse crimes than scamming idiots out of their money.

When she ducked into the brightly lit nightclub, it wasn’t to find a mark. She really did only want a drink and to disappear for a little bit, maybe even find someone to go home with. There was a wide array of men and women packed inside the building, and she literally had her choice. 

And then she saw the sort of guaranteed payday few other marks could promise.

Even nine months on the Outer Rim with limited access to waves didn’t prevent Mya from recognizing Arianne Martell. The daughter and heir to the Dornish throne, she was the definition of a perfect mark. There were rumors she was engaged to the exiled Targaryen prince, but rumors were all there were; for the most part, Arianne Martell was an unknown entity.

And while unknown entities were the most dangerous of marks, they also had the best potential payoff.

Mya positions herself near the bar, ordering a bottle of beer and scanning the club while making certain to keep an eye on Arianne. There were a throng of girls around her, but Mya was reasonably certain they were her cousins. A blonde sitting at Arianne’s side kept shooting suggestive smiles in Mya’s direction, and she knew this was her way in.

She sent a drink to the blonde, raising her beer in a toast, and the blonde smiled, waving her over. Mya threaded her way through the crowd, discreetly tugging the hem of her shirt down to reveal her minimal amount of cleavage. She wore no bra, and Mya knew it would be obvious nearer the strobes. As she climbed the steps towards the VIP area, Mya saw all of the girls had piled their expensive purses on one table, confident of their safety behind the velvet ropes.

“I’m Tyene,” the blonde shouted over the music.

“Mya!”

She expected conversation or even coy flirtation, which was why when Tyene hooked her around the neck and pulled her into a deep kiss, Mya hesitated for a moment before reciprocating. Gathering her wits, Mya walked her backwards, pinning Tyene against a pillar, one hand brazenly sliding up Tyene’s thigh, and from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Arianne watching them with blatant interest.

This was going to be even easier than Mya thought.


	21. Eighties

Despite the years spent training for this, the endless lessons to obliterate her accent and perfect her English, there are still times when Margaery forgets the right word, when her thoughts revert back to Russian. She is good at covering her confusion, and no one would ever believe for a minute that Margaery Baratheon, the wife of Senator Joffrey Baratheon, is a KGB spy. They wouldn’t even _consider_ the idea that the same woman who smiled for photo ops with Nancy Reagan and Barbara Bush is the same woman who sends American secrets back to Moscow.

And it is because she is so good at what she does that she is assigned to take the girl known as Sansa Stark under her wing.

Margaery isn’t entirely sure why they ever selected someone like Sansa for this life. She is too beautiful to truly hide in plain sight, and there is something meek about her. It isn’t a persona she puts on; Margaery has any number of identities she wears when requires but they are always just acts. Sansa seems to vibrate with insecurity, fear, and ineptitude. She’s certainly no honeypot and Margaery would bet her life that she’s never put a bullet in an enemy agent. 

“Do you understand what happens if you fuck up here?” Margaery asks with a benign smile over tea at her country club. “Do you know what will be done to you, to your family?”

“Of course I know. I would not have ever agreed to this if it wasn’t for my family.” 

Margaery feels herself relax some. “You send them money?”

She stares down into her teacup. “I will not be tricked into speaking out of turn.”

“I was not trying to trick you, Sansa.”

It is hard for some of the agents to divorce themselves from their prior lives. Margaery missed certain people from before: her grandmother, her cousins, her brothers. But she is serving a higher calling, a greater purpose, and nothing compares to that.

“What is he like, your husband?”

Sansa’s husband is a rising star at the CIA, a pompous, loud pretty boy called Harry Hardyng. The one and only time Margaery met him, he hit on her and every other woman in the room, and to say he was an easy target was an understatement. If this is the best the United States had to offer in the way of intelligence gathering, Margaery had complete confidence Russia would ultimately be victorious.

“He is a man like every other man.” 

There is something in her tone Margaery recognizes. Slipping out of her high heel, Margaery stretches her leg, running her stocking clad foot against the inside of Sansa’s leg. The redhead’s eyes widen but she does not pull away.

“And men are not to your liking, Mrs. Hardyng?”

Sansa captures her foot between her thighs, pressing her hips up for pressure. “Not if I am choosing for myself, no.”

Lifting her teacup into a toast, Margaery grins. “It would seem we have something in common after all.”


	22. Musicians

Alys has never even heard of this band, but Gilly insists they’re great. She suspects Gilly’s real interest in the band lies in their portly manager, but Alys is so happy to see Gilly have actual interest in someone, she agrees to follow her to the worst neighborhood in town to listen to this band.

There are four scruffy guys playing instruments and a lithe, blonde singer who wraps herself around the microphone stand as she croons. “The Wildlings” is written on the front of the drum kit, and Alys decides she is going to hit on the bass player at this after party Gilly keeps going on about. His dark curls and brooding expression are high on Alys’s list of attractive qualities, and when she asks Gilly his name, she says Jon.

“But he has a girlfriend,” Gilly continues, pointing to a redhead with curly hair seated near the stage, “and she’ll definitely fuck you up if you try to hit on him.”

Sinking back into her chair, Alys orders another drink and resigns herself to playing wingman for the night.

The party is being held at a shitty apartment Gilly explains belongs to the male members of the band and her crush. Sam, the crush in question, brings them beers and stammers every time Gilly smiles at him, and the whole thing is so sickeningly sweet, Alys isn’t sure whether to feel happy for Gilly or throw up.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” a husky voice murmurs behind her, and Alys turns to see the blonde singer standing there. She gestures towards Sam and Gilly with her red cup, and Alys nods.

“Young love.”

“I don’t know your friend very well, but Sam talks about her like she’s the first girl to ever walk the planet.”

“Yeah, Gilly likes him too.”

The blonde studies her for a moment, and Alys feels as if she is naked beneath her stare. “I’m Val.”

“Alys.”

“Alys,” Val repeats, rolling the name around on her tongue. It sounds downright obscene coming from her, and Alys feels her stomach give a little flip. 

It’s been awhile since Alys has been with a woman. Not since college and sweet Roslin Frey with her tendency to blush and sound surprised every time she came. Alys doubted Val had ever blushed a day in her life.

“You want another drink, Alys?”

Alys throws back the rest of her drink and smirks. “You trying to get me drunk?”

Val chuckles. “Please. As if I’d have to get you drunk for this.”

As she walks over to the makeshift bar to get them both drinks, Alys has to admit Val has a point. She definitely won’t need to be drunk for this.


	23. Roadtrip

Missandei does not know if she believes in heaven or hell, but if there _is_ a hell, she imagines it is as hot and uncomfortable as it is in this tiny tent.

She doesn’t like camping and she likes this foster family even less, but Dany, her social worker, says she needs to start trying. Since going into placement, Missandei has gone through nine foster families and one group home, and she is only eleven. The Baratheons definitely aren’t warm people and she doesn’t understand their bizarre religion at all, but at least they’re taking her on vacation _with_ them instead of leaving her behind with a sitter like the last family did.

They are driving cross-country from South Carolina to the Grand Canyon with stops along the way wherever Mr. Baratheon decides to take them. So far that’s been a lot of Civil War battle sites and boring National Parks. Edric, their other foster kid, had managed to talk him into stopping at a water park somewhere in Missouri, but even that had ultimately been a bust since it started to downpour an after they arrived. Shireen, their bio-kid, was the only one brave enough to announce somewhere in Oklahoma that this was the worst trip ever and she wanted to go home, and while Missandei had no strong feelings about Shireen before, she definitely liked her more after that.

Tonight they are in Texas at another random campsite. Missandei is a city girl, and the endless quiet of nature unsettles her. She lies atop her sleeping bag, the nylon sticking to her overheated, sweaty skin, and even though she wears nothing but a pair of panties and a thin undershirt, she still feels like it’s a million degrees. There is a tiny battery powered fan uselessly blowing hot air around the tent, and it makes Missandei long for her bunk bed in Charleston where she can listen to the hum of the air conditioning. The tent jostles slightly in the breeze, and she almost unzips the tent to let the air in until she remembers Mr. Baratheon’s warning about snakes and scorpions creeping into the tent.

“Ugh,” Shireen groans, flopping around on her own sleeping bag. She is also down to her underwear, her long hair piled on top of her head to keep it from sticking to her skin. “This sucks.”

Missandei is prettier than Shireen. She doesn’t think it to be mean; it is objective and something Shireen believes too. Her foster sister is pale with hair that is neither blonde nor brunette; scars from a car accident mar one side of her plain face and Edric told her that one of Shireen’s eyes are fake. Some of the kids at school make comments about Shireen behind her back, but Missandei thinks she’s nice enough. Not to mention that Shireen always helps her with her math homework and doesn’t tell Mrs. Baratheon when she gets in trouble at school.

“I’m going to bake to death.”

“I can’t believe they won’t let us stay in a hotel. It’s, like, a thousand degrees.” Shireen sat up, her bun flopping around the top of her head, and she sighs. “This is even worse than the last trip.”

“What was the last trip?”

“Two years ago we went to visit my uncle Robert in Virginia. My dad made us listen to some book on tape the whole way there, refused to take us anywhere fun, and then got into a huge fight with my uncle and made us leave in the middle of the night. We got a flat tire in the middle of nowhere, my mom threw a fit, Edric got sick all over the back of the van, and some creepy trucker had to take my dad to the nearest town so we could get a tow.”

Missandei chuckles. “That does sound really bad.”

“Did you ever go on vacation before?”

“Before the social workers took us, my mom took my brothers and me to South Africa to meet her sisters. That’s where she and my dad were from.”

“What happened to them?”

“They died.” 

“Edric’s mom died. That’s how he ended up with us.” Lowering her voice to a whisper despite the fact that they were alone in the tent, she divulged, “Edric’s mom was my aunt Delena. She got pregnant with him at my parents’ wedding when she hooked up with Uncle Robert. My parents think we don’t know, but we totally do.”

“How do you know I won’t tell them you know?”

Shireen shrugs. “I trust you.” After a beat she adds, “You can trust me too, Miss.”

“Who says I have secrets?”

“Everyone has secrets.”

“Oh yeah? What’s _your_ secret?”

“I just told you.”

“You told me Edric’s secret.”

In the darkness of the tent, Missandei can barely see Shireen, but she knows Shireen is looking at her, _studying_ her, trying to figure out how far to take this. Her two years in foster care have taught Missandei the way of people well, and she knows Shireen is deciding if she should put her money where her mouth is.

“I kissed Arya Stark after soccer practice last month,” Shireen finally says, her words soft but clear. 

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“Wanted to kiss her or wanted to kiss a girl?”

“Both.” She cocks her head, the bun atop her head listing to the side. “Did I freak you out?”

She scoffs. “No, of course not. Why, did you want to?”

“Maybe.” Shireen smirks, the scarred side of her mouth remaining down with the other side of her mouth perks up. “Edric said you stabbed a guy once.”

“What? No, I didn’t!” Crossing her arms over her flat chest, she retorts, “Edric told _me_ you have a glass eye.”

Shireen giggles, crossing her eyes and then rolling them. “See? Both mine. They’re about the only thing not totally messed up about me.”

“Okay, so you have two eyes and I don’t stab guys.”

Flopping back onto her sleeping bag, Shireen points out, “You still didn’t tell me a secret.”

Missandei lies back on the sleeping bag, wincing at the way it sticks to her skin. After a minute she admits, “I kissed Arya Stark in the art room after school.”

“Shut up!”

She laughs. “Nope, totally did.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to. Because I wanted to see what it was like. I don’t know.” Rolling onto her side, she teases, “You going to fight me for her?”

“Of course not. That wouldn’t be very sisterly.” Shireen’s hand reaches blindly across the nylon divide, finding Missandei’s. Her hand is hot and clammy, but Missandei still squeezes it back. “You _are_ my sister now, Miss, right?”

Missandei smiles. “Right.”


	24. The Future

The aerotrain runs from one side of the city to the other, zipping just above the tracks of where the monorail once ran. Her mother always makes her promise to only get off at the stops for school and home and to _never_ take the train to the other side of the city.

“There are bad people on the South end, thieves and murderers and people who would sooner kill you than help you,” Cersei warns her the first time Myrcella ever takes the train. “And if they ever found out who you were, God only knows what they’d do then.”

Myrcella doubts anyone on the aerotrain gives a shit that her grandfather advises the governor on economic matters, but she dutifully promises not to tell anyone who she is.

She isn’t really rebellious by nature. Beyond her mother’s bizarre warnings, she and her brothers are generally unsupervised. If she really wanted to get wild, she could, and she doubts her parents would even notice until she was in labor in the dining room. And yet when the train glides to a stop at the platform she needs to get off at in order to reach her private school in time, Myrcella doesn’t let go of the pole she leans against, watching as the familiar sights disappear outside.

Myrcella isn’t entirely sure where she is in the city when the doors open and a new flood of people enter. She spots the girl in the middle of the group, pushing her way towards one of the straps hanging from the ceiling. Her blonde hair is curly and in a cloud around her head, the sort of hair designed to take up room and demand attention. Her golden skin is revealed in the high-waisted shorts and crop top she wears, a pair of weird fringey sandals on her feet. 

Myrcella blushes as the girl turns her blue eyes on her, a smile spreading across her face. She quickly looks away but is aware the girl is moving through the crowd towards her.

“I’m Tyene,” she says, bold as brass, wrapping her hand around the pole Myrcella clings to, her hand overlapping Myrcella’s.

“Myrcella.”

“Ooh, fancy.” Tyene takes in Myrcella’s school uniform and chuckles. “It looks like you missed your stop, Mumbling Myrcella. Are you lost, little girl?”

“No,” she manages, trying to sound confident.

“I think you are.” She sways forward, the motion having nothing to do with the movement of the train, and places a hand on the curve of Myrcella’s waist. “Don’t worry, Myrcella. I’ll get you out of the woods.”


	25. Olympics

Hearing that she’d be coming and actually seeing her were two very different things. Brienne realized this during warm-ups when she saw a familiar auburn ponytail bobbing through the crowd. It made her miss an easy set, earning her Margaery’s anger and a snap about how they sure as hell couldn’t count on medaling if Brienne was going to zone out during clutch times.

It isn’t as if the Olympic beach volleyball community is so large Brienne could count on missing Sansa entirely. Even if they managed to avoid competing against each other, she’d known she’d see her at practices, in the village, at press events; no matter what she did, Sansa Stark would be a part of her life again for the next two weeks and Brienne hadn’t worked her entire life towards becoming an Olympian to let her emotions get in the way.

But seeing the woman who broke her heart into a thousand pieces every single day _wasn’t_ something Brienne had trained for her entire life, and it was completely kicking her ass.

Sansa and her partner, a lithely muscled woman with a pixie cut named Mya, received more press than Brienne and Margaery, and she understood why. It was easier for the international media to look at Sansa’s and Mya’s faces on magazines than Brienne’s ugly one. Margaery took the lack of press more personally, and while she claimed it was because they were objectively better than Sansa and Mya, Brienne thought there was also vanity at play as well. Nevertheless, when it came time for interviews, Brienne was happy to step back and let Margaery work her charms. She wasn’t here to become the press’s golden girl; she was here to win a gold medal for her country.

All of the beach volleyball players were required to do press today, and Brienne dutifully showed up in her ridiculous Team USA outfit, her hair forcibly gelled into submission by Margaery. While the men’s team was being interviewed, Brienne hung back, keeping to herself as always. Margaery, ever the social butterfly, was flirting with a men’s pair from Spain, and Brienne wondered if she should find a place to hang out tonight so as to avoid hearing Margaery enjoying the company of one of the Spanish men.

“Brie?”

Brienne froze, her heart in her throat. Only one person has ever called her “Brie,” has ever attempted to make her sound softer and sweeter. Brienne lost count of how many times the diminutive had been breathed against her ear, whispered against her mouth, moaned against her skin; on the nights when the loneliness ate at her, Brienne closed her eyes and remembered the thrill she felt each and every time, her fingers moving roughly between her thighs.

Sansa smiled tentatively, her blue eyes as kind as ever, and Brienne didn’t understand how she managed to look so damned beautiful in their ridiculous red, white, and blue warm-ups. Her hair was longer than ever, the end of her fishtail braid brushing the small of her back, and Brienne wanted to unravel it, run her fingers through it, watch Sansa’s pink nipples peek through the strands as she moves atop her. Brienne just _wanted_ , and she hated herself for it.

“Hello, Sansa.”

Sansa stood on tiptoe, brushing a kiss against the cheek marred by scars, and Brienne forced herself not to rest her hands on the curve of her waist, forced herself not to respond in any way. She could not show her heart, not now.

“I was wondering when we’d finally see each other. I saw your match against the Sands, but you hurried out so fast, I couldn’t catch you.” Sansa smiled again but Brienne saw through it, could tell how nervous she was. “Or maybe you’re just avoiding me.”

“Why would I avoid you?”

Sansa sighed, glancing at the throng of reporters. Dropping her voice, she said, “Because of what I did, how we ended. You just disappeared.”

“What else would I have done? You made your feelings clear – “

“I didn’t!” she objected, wincing when she realized how loud she’d been. Dropping her voice even lower, she hissed, “What I did had nothing to do with you.”

Anger began to outweigh hurt. “How could you fucking Jon Snow not have been about me?”

Sansa wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s complicated.”

“Well, you don’t owe me any explanations – “

“I do!” She sighed, shook her head; Brienne hated how much she wanted to comfort her. “You knew about my history with Jon before we ever got together. You knew how much we went through and how messy things ended.”

“And that makes what happened okay?”

“No, nothing makes it _okay_. But none of what happened was because of you or because I didn’t want you. Jon showed up at my place, he was drunk and upset after finding out about his parents, and I just – We fell into old habits. I knew the second it happened it was a mistake, and the reason I told you wasn’t because I wanted to be with Jon; it was because I didn’t want to lie to you.”

“Okay.”

Sansa’s face fell. “Okay? That’s – That’s all you’re going to say?”

“What do you want me to say, Sansa? I loved you. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. I came home one day and you told me you fucked your ex-boyfriend. How would you have felt?”

“So there’s – There’s no chance then?”

“Chance?”

“Chance of us ever trying again.”

Brienne looked at her, words failing. She wanted nothing more than to tell her how much she still loved her, still wanted her; she wanted to swear she could forget about what happened between her and Jon. But she also knew herself, and she did not know if she could.

“Brienne!” Margaery called, waving her over. “We’re next!”

Brienne looked at Sansa, tears definitely in her eyes now, and she managed, “I don’t know,” before leaving her to smile blandly at Bob Costas and answer the same questions she’d already answered a dozen times since qualifying for the games.


	26. The Fifties

The double date was Robb’s idea. Jeyne wanted to bow out of it, claim a headache or some other non-specific illness, but she didn’t because everyone at school would ask her Monday why she wasn’t at the drive-in with her boyfriend. Robb picked her up just before sunset, Sansa sitting in the backseat on the driver’s side, murmuring a greeting when Robb opened the door for Jeyne to slip inside. They made the short drive across town to pick up Harry Hardyng, the loud, boisterous boy immediately asking Robb if he planned on going to the baseball game tomorrow afternoon, and Jeyne settled into the seat, hoping and praying the night would be over soon.

Cars packed the drive-in lot, the lines for the concession stand backing up as everyone rushed to get their snacks before the movie started. Robb had to wedge the Stark family car into a spot furthest from the entrance next to the stand with the loose speaker. When he pulled out his wallet and asked what everyone in the car wanted, Jeyne felt a spasm of panic as she realized what was about to happen.

“I can get the popcorn,” she began but Robb quickly waved her off.

“There’s no way I’m letting my girl do that,” Robb said, leaning over and pressing a chaste kiss to her mouth. “Harry, you want to help me get our girls some treats?”

Jeyne watched in panic as Robb and Harry navigated their way through the crowds, trying desperately to forget about Sansa in the backseat.

“Do you hate me now?”

The tiny, hurt voice from the backseat shocked Jeyne out of her revelry, spinning around with horror. “No! Sansa, no, I don’t hate you.”

“I didn’t mean to do it,” Sansa continued, starting to get choked up. Jeyne could not see her tears, but she knew they were there. “I swear, Jeyne, I didn’t.”

“I believe you.”

“But you still hate me.” In the darkness, Jeyne could make out Sansa’s bouncing shoulders. “Please don’t tell Robb. If he tells my parents – “

“I wouldn’t do that, Sansa, I promise.” Wanting to make her feel better despite her own nervousness, Jeyne reached across the street, fumbling for Sansa’s hand. “I kissed you back, Sansa. You weren’t the only one who – who did that.”

“It was an accident. I just – You were being so kind to me and you looked so pretty, I started having all of these feelings – “

Jeyne squeezed her hand. “It’s okay, Sansa.”

“It isn’t! If it was okay, you wouldn’t be avoiding me – “

“I’m not avoiding you because I’m mad.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because I liked it!” Shocked at her own honesty, Jeyne pulled her hand back, folding them primly in her lap the way her mother taught her. She could not look at Sansa, not now. 

“You did?”

Jeyne glanced out the windshield and saw Robb and Harry coming back with buckets of popcorn and cups of soda. “I did.”

“Oh.”

Jeyne barely heard a word Robb said as he slid back into the car, parceling out snacks. She didn’t remember a thing about the movie. But she _did_ remember the feel of Sansa’s skin beneath her palm, as soft and hot as it was when Sansa cupped her face and kissed her like the world was ending in the Stark living room.


	27. Suddenly Related

It’s a character flaw. That’s the way Catelyn has always felt about it, her desire for women, the acts it drives her to do. She loves Ned so wholly, loves their children and the life they’ve built together; it makes no sense to her why she still feels the need to seek out women, to pretend she’d going to some PTA event and instead go to a hotel room for an arranged rendezvous with a woman she pays for her company.

She’d just die if anyone ever found out. Not so much about the women part but the prostitute part. The only reason she’d even heard of the escort service from which she arranges for company is because of Lysa, who gleefully told her of a childhood friend’s husband patronizing their services. If it came out that Catelyn withdrew $250 every two weeks from her trust fund to pay a woman named Chataya to send a girl to her hotel room…It would be the end of the world as Catelyn knew it.

Her favorite, the one she’s been requesting for the past eight months in the same voice she uses to request paper bags at the grocery store, is a girl named Roslin. She is young, maybe Robb’s age, with shining brown hair and skin so soft, Catelyn always want to touch her. Unlike some of the women Chataya has sent, Roslin is quiet, almost demure. On their fourth meeting, Roslin confessed Catelyn was the first woman she’d ever been with, and it made Catelyn wonder how she ended up doing this.

During their sixth encounter, she asked, Roslin splayed on the bed, her skin as white as the crisp sheets. “I have a gigantic family, and my father thinks it’s a waste of money to pay for college for girls.”

“Do you – Do you have to do this a lot?”

“Not as much since someone started requesting me every time.” Roslin smiled, carded her fingers through Catelyn’s hair. “Why do _you_ do this, Cat?”

It was careless, telling Roslin her real first name, but she didn’t want to hear Roslin call her by some alias. “Because when I don’t, I feel like something’s missing.”

Roslin found Catelyn’s left hand, touching the engagement and wedding rings there. “So you pay?”

“So I pay.”

She stops paying. Four months into their appointments, Roslin programs her phone number into Catelyn’s phone and says, “You don’t have to pay me for this anymore.” Catelyn knows she should delete it, request another girl; ordering a girl from Chataya is different than knowingly carrying on an affair with Roslin.

But she calls, starts meeting Roslin at hotels, at Roslin’s tiny efficiency apartment, and once in the backseat of her minivan, the seats laid down, Roslin accidentally clutching Rickon’s booster seat as she comes. She is getting careless, being reckless, and every time Catelyn swears this is the last time.

And as Catelyn stands in the foyer of her house with Ned to greet Robb and the girl he’s eloped with, Catelyn wishes she’d never even started as Roslin enters the house, her hand tightly clasped in Robb’s.

Roslin looks as horrified as Catelyn does, quickly looking away as Robb introduces her to everyone, laughing about his impulsivity and crowing about how wonderful his new bride is.

The last time Catelyn saw Roslin, they’d been in a hotel downtown. Roslin had fucked her with a strap-on, making her come twice, and then she’d urged the girl to sit on her face, making her scream and clutch the headboard as she came. Then they’d fucked in the shower before leaving, Roslin whispering such filthy things in her ear, it fueled Catelyn’s solo sessions ever since.

And now Roslin is her daughter-in-law. 

“Welcome to the family,” Catelyn manages with the weakest of smiles before excusing herself to get dinner ready.

She hopes no one can hear her cry when she ducks into the downstairs bathroom.


	28. Time Travel

Her aunt Lysa’s house was the most boring place Arya ever remembered being and it was only the second day of being there. She didn’t understand why she and her siblings couldn’t stay at home while her parents went on their second honeymoon; Robb was in college and all of them knew not to play with the stove. Exiling them at Aunt Lysa’s house was cruel and unusual punishment, particularly since Uncle Jon took the boys hunting and left her at the house with Sansa and Lysa.

So deeply committed to drowning in her self-pity, Arya didn’t see the well covered by brush until she was already falling, too shocked to even scream as her hands scrambled for purchase on the smooth walls. Her efforts were for nothing; there was nothing to break her fall, and Arya suddenly remembered some Lifetime movie Sansa watched once where a kid fell down a well and wasn’t discovered for three days.

The shock of being submerged in cold water brought Arya out of her shock, screaming beneath the surface and kicking for the top. As Arya burst out of the water, coughing and sputtering, pushing at the hair now plastered to her face, the first thing Arya noticed was it wasn’t dark anymore. The pitch black of the well was gone as was the scent of rot and mildew. Arya shook her head as if to make sense of what she was seeing.

 _Maybe the well emptied downstream or something_ , Arya though as she took in the rolling green fields and trees dotting the bank. She dogpaddled until she could touch the spongy bottom, slogging through the mud to sit on the grass. Arya looked around trying to figure out where she was in relation to Aunt Lysa’s house when a voice asked, “Are you lost?”

The girl asking the question looked about Arya’s age, her black curls pinned to the top of her head; she wore a fancy silk covered in ribbons that reminded Arya of those silly Jane Austen movies Sansa loved so much, and her brown skin was scrubbed free of any of the makeup Arya’s peers wore.

“Are _you_?” Arya blurted out without thinking, and the girl smiled.

“You are sitting beside the river on my foster mother’s land, so I am quite certain I belong here. You, however, are a different matter.” The girl cocked her head. “What strange garments are you wearing?”

Arya glanced down at her shorts and Penguins t-shirt. “What are you talking about?”

“Did you bump your head? When Master Jorah struck his head, he lost his senses for a time. But Mother righted him.” The girl nodded as if something was decided. “Come. I’ll take you to my mother. She’ll know what to do with you.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

The girl raised an eyebrow. “You do not want me to return with my mother’s men. They do not take kindly to trespassers, and you _are_ trespassing.” 

“I just need to get back to my aunt’s house. Can you tell me where Mockingbird Lane is?”

“I have not heard of any Mockingbird Lane.”

Arya got to her feet, pulling her shirt away from her skin with a wet slap. “Okay, well, do you know where the Arryns live?”

“Lord Jasper Arryn lives two leagues – “

“No, Jon and Lysa Arryn.”

The girl shook her head. “I have not heard of any Jon or Lysa. Come to the house. Perhaps my mother knows.” When Arya did not move, the girl sighed. “My name is Missandei. I mean you no harm.”

“Arya Stark,” she offered begrudgingly, flinching as her feet squish with every step. 

They were halfway up a hill, the roof of a house coming into view, when Arya suddenly asked, “What year is it?”

“The year of Our Lord, 1762.”

 _This is a dream_ , Arya told herself as the grand estate came into view. _This is just a dream._

So why wasn’t she waking up?


	29. Chance Meeting

Daenerys was in the middle of washing her roommates’ dishes and silently cursing them for it when she heard the door to her apartment open. Expecting one of her roommates stumbling in as they had every night during Senior Week, she jumped when an unfamiliar accented voice called, “Alright, asshole, where are my keys?”

Turning off the water, Dany popped her head out of the kitchen to see a strange woman standing in her living room balanced precariously on a pair of stilettos. Her black hair hung in a shining wave over her shoulders, her make-up expertly applied; the bright red of her lipstick made her golden skin seem even warmer, and the tube dress she wore emphasized her small waist and full bust.

She blinked in surprise at the sight of Dany. “You aren’t Rakharo.”

“Um, nope. He lives down the hall.”

“Oh.” The girl opened Dany’s door, looked at the number on the door. “I could’ve sworn he was 103.”

“105,” she corrects, trying desperately not to notice the length of the girl’s legs. It’s been an insane semester; between finishing her classes, her honors project, and studying for the GMAT, she’d had no social life. She and Daario broke up in October when it came out he’d been sleeping with half of the freshmen class, and beyond a single hook-up with Doreah while she was home for winter break, it had been a very long time since Dany indulged in her baser instincts.

“Well fuck,” the girl laughed. “You probably think I’m a drunk psycho right about now.”

Dany smiled. “Only a little bit.”

“I’m Irri, Rakharo’s directionally challenged cousin.”

“Dany.”

“Dany,” Irri echoed, her eyes flicking up and down over her. “I assume you _aren’t_ going to Drogo’s party?”

“No, I – I’m not really a party girl.”

“No? What sort of girl are you?”

She felt a blush rising on her cheeks. “Um, I’m – you know, I’m – “

“Are you the sort of girl who likes a good time?”

“Depends on the good time.”

Irri laughed, stepping out of her shoes, and Dany saw she was shorter than she’d originally thought. “What if I’m the good time?”

Dany couldn’t believe the boldness of her, but her arousal outweighed her shock. “Then yeah, I like a good time.”

Pushing the lock button on the doorknob, she asked, “Your roommates due back any time soon?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good.” Stepping close to Dany, she rose on her toes, her lips brushing Dany’s as she divulged, “I like to be loud.”

As Dany melted in the kiss, her fingers sinking into Irri’s hair, she was never more grateful for her roommates being slobs.


	30. Happily Ever After

“Wait, why are there carnations in that centerpiece? I specifically said – “

Arya grabbed the curtains, yanking them shut and stepping between her sister and the window. “Okay, step away from the window, bridezilla.”

“But I ordered gerbera daisies – “

Arya held her fingers in front of Sansa’s mouth, stopping shy of actually touching her and smudging the lipstick the makeup artist just finishing applying. “Sansa, there isn’t going to _be_ a wedding if you give yourself a stroke before the ceremony even starts. Now I am sure Mom will go down to the reception space and talk to the florist because I have no fucking idea what a gerbera daisy is but until she does, you need to fucking relax.”

Sansa clenched her fists, her perfect manicure pressing half-moons into her palms. “I will murder you.”

“No, you won’t because then the wedding party would be uneven, and you would have a meltdown over _that_.” Arya smiled, setting her hands on Sansa’s bare shoulders. “Now, the ceremony starts in twenty minutes, and you are in your underwear.”

Sansa glanced down as if just realizing all she wore was a white corset, white panties, and a lacy blue garter. She looked around the room at her other bridesmaids and then back at Arya before agreeing, “Okay, yeah, I need to get dressed.”

“Yes, you do,” Margaery agreed, carefully removing the garment bag from Sansa’s wedding gown, “because I paid $175 for a dress that makes me look like a banana, and if you don’t get married, I’ll have to choke you out with one of those tulle bows we made for the chairs.”

“It’s true,” Mya chimed in, offering Sansa her hands for balance as she stepped into the gown. “And since my plans tonight revolve around nailing your half-brother after the reception – “ 

“Ew!” Arya and Sansa exclaimed, making nearly identical expressions of disgust, and it was this moment Catelyn Stark chose to enter the room and immediately dissolve into tears.

“Oh, Sansa, you’re so beautiful,” Catelyn cried, pressing a tissue beneath her eyes to keep her make-up from running. 

“Do you ever get tired of hearing that?” Arya murmured as she zipped up the gown, squinting with effort to close the buttons at the top of the zipper. 

“Says the girl whose boyfriend never stops singing her praises,” Sansa retorted with a smile, smoothing her hands down the body of her gown to erase any wrinkles. The gown was very simple, which mystified everyone who knew her given her preference for glitz; the strapless white stain emphasized her full breasts and small waist, and when she stepped into the heels she’d spent an obscene amount of money on, she knew she’d only be a few inches shorter than Brienne for the first time since they started dating.

When Ned knocked on the door, looking distinguished in his tuxedo, Sansa felt a fission of nervousness in her belly before hustling her bridesmaid out of the hotel suite. She kept raising one hand to check the back of hair to make sure that her hairstyle was still in place, the comb of her veil tucked neatly inside it, until Ned reached over, gently closing his hand over hers.

“You’re perfect, sweetheart.”

As the processional began, Sansa watched as her bridesmaids began the slow walk down the aisle. Sansa could just make out Brienne’s form on the altar, and she squeezed Ned’s arm tighter.

“Are you ready?” he asked as the bridal march began, and Sansa took a deep breath before nodding.

Brienne looked so unlike herself in her tan suit, the yellow and blue tie Sansa purchased for her knotted at her throat. She must have had the beautician cut her hair this morning, for it was both shorter and gelled into some sort of spikes that Sansa found herself surprised to like. Seeing Brienne in formal wear was a once-in-a-blue-moon affair, and Sansa decided then and there she was going to start insisting they go out once a month all dressed up.

“Oh my god,” Brienne whispered as Sansa joined her on the altar, her blue eyes seeming even brighter, and Sansa did not realize until the minister pronounced them wife and wife she didn’t even remember what was said.

“We’re married,” Sansa said with a laugh, and Brienne grinned, pulling her into a firm embrace. 

“Yeah, we are.”

Sansa melted into their kiss, hoisting herself up on her toes to meet Brienne’s mouth more. She could taste cinnamon Tic-Tacs on Brienne’s tongue, and it made her love her wife all the more.

 _Her wife_. Sansa remembered how upset she’d been in high school when she first realized she was a lesbian and how devastated she was she’d never be able to get married. But here she was, making out with her wife after their wedding ceremony, about to go into their reception – which had hopefully been scrubbed of all carnations – and it was _real_.

“Why are you crying?” Brienne asked as the kiss broke, one of her thumbs catching a crystalline tear.

“I’m so happy,” Sansa managed, pulling her down for another kiss.


End file.
